Realness

A sermon preached with the people of St. John’s Episcopal Church in Oakland, California.

In the hills of Palestine, shepherds were minding their own business among the bleating of the beasts in their care. “Did you hear about this new tax policy out of Rome?” one said, leaning down to check on one of his fuzzy charges.

“Two thousand miles away from here,” came a salty response. “Squeezing as much as they can out of people they’ll never meet.”

“I hear some folks are having to travel at their own expense—going into debt—just to comply. It’s a real shame.”

“I dunno. I heard somewhere that’s actually fake news.”(1)

“You never can tell these days.”

“Nope.”

And then, with no warning at all, the sound of rushing wind filled their ears as the night sky tore in half, and the very heavens burst open, flooding the inky darkness with radiant beings and—just for a moment—an eerie silence. One of the angels came close, and closer still. And said, “Do not be afraid.”

Shaky sheep burrowing against their legs, the shepherds steadied their breathing as best they could as the angel continued. “I have good news. I have joyful news. The Messiah—the Savior of all people—has been born in Bethlehem. You can go see him. You will know you’ve found the right place when you find a newborn baby wrapped in scraps of cloth, lying in a cattle trough instead of a cradle.”

“Wait—right over in town?” came a nervous voice.

“A…trough?”

“I don’t…”

And then a cacophonous chorus joined in: “Glory to God in the highest heaven, and on earth peace among those whom God favors!” And the familiar night sky was restored. And nothing was ever the same.

These were not holy men keeping vigil in prayer. They were not waiting for a sign. They were working a night shift—like any other. Probably tired. Definitely smelly. Living the realities of life in a far-flung outpost of a bloated empire. Shepherds were not powerful or particularly trusted. They lived mostly out of sight, doing work that was necessary and important—and, as is so often the case with that kind of work, went largely unthanked for it.

In all of our beautiful and magical Christmas storytelling, the reality of the setting can get lost. And when that happens, the story can begin to sound like a fairytale—set in some alternate universe, a wholly separate place. But the true joy of this story is that it happened in the very real world. The “realest" version of our world. This world. And it happened to the realest of people.

Understandably, we want Christmas to be polished and tidy—to have treats prepared, people in place, life arranged just so. We want to feel a certain way when this day finally comes. We want this Christmas to resemble the ones we remember—or perhaps the ones we wish had been, but never were. We want the world itself to feel different. And all those expectations can let us down.

So on Christmas morning, I find comfort in the face of those expectations and the grief that lives in the gap between them and reality—in remembering that God came to us right into the true realness of things.

God sent angels to tear open the very fabric of creation and preach the first Christmas sermon not to the princes, or the priests, or the perfect, but to a group of grumbling working people and milling livestock in the middle of an otherwise ordinary night. God trusted them to believe the message, to leave their sheep, and to go see it with their own eyes.

Our God with us, Immanuel, was born in an unpolished, real time and place—under uncomfortable, even dangerous circumstances. And the first ones invited to witness it were not the prepared or the powerful, but the available. The ones who were already up and about in the dark—not out of piety, but practicality. And when they heard the call, they listened, and believed, and went to see this miracle that had happened.

Christmas joy does not deny the world as it is. It interrupts it. Joins it. Loves those of us living in it. God does not wait for everything to be just right, but shows up in the thick of the mess. Comes to us as we are. As we were made. Not as we might wish ourselves to be.

To us, God’s real people in God’s real world.

(1) Indeed, many scholars believe the census in Luke’s Gospel was a (brilliant) literary device, and not historical fact. Apologies for the Wikipedia citation, I am rather tired! https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Census_of_Quirinius#Gospel_of_Luke